


To Be a King

by Multifandom_Writer_57



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:20:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27055585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Multifandom_Writer_57/pseuds/Multifandom_Writer_57
Summary: Arinvar Duskwalker, a wandering half-wizard with a penchant for adventure, somehow finds himself dragged into the quest to reclaim Erebor.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	1. A Chanced Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't quite sure how much of the Jackson Movies canon and how much of the actual Tolkien book canon this work was inspired by so both are tagged.  
> Also, Arinvar is a descendant of Alatar the Blue, who does not make an appearance in any of Tolkien's works except briefly by name (to my understanding), so everything lore-wise about his wizardly abilities is purely speculation.

As he enters the town, one he has frequented in his travels, he notices something strange. There, trailing behind someone who must be either a rather tall dwarf or a rather short man, is a pair of men that he vaguely recognizes, bounty hunters by the looks of it. The town of Cedar Hill is well known for having capable guards, sensible and kind people, and an almost negligible amount of crime. To see such unsavory sort here must mean either they snuck in or gave something rather valuable to the guards, and since the latter is far less likely, it would be safe to assume their intentions with the person they stalk are not in any way good.

Hoping he does not seem too suspicious, he trails them to an inn, stopping briefly at the door. The sign above it reads "The Fiddling Frog" with the image of a frog playing a small but ornate fiddle carved into its blue-painted wood. He has been here several times, knows the owner well, and cannot help but wonder what this night within its walls will hold.

He steps inside and notes that each unsavory character has placed themselves in the far corners of the room so that if their target were to try escaping, the target would be caught in the ruffians' pincer of a trap.

  
The target seems to be an obviously affluent person, clothes a clear indication of his wealth. Everything he wears is in good standing, of excellent quality, and the fur lining of his dense coat seems plush and well kept. Clearly this person is of some form of importance in his land and, though he seems strong enough and has a blade of his own, it may not prove to be enough to fend off whatever dirty tricks those rapscallions may have up their sleeves.

  
This person must be a dwarf, or at least mostly dwarf of some variety. His features may be a touch too refined to be a pure-blooded dwarf, but his stocky build and style of dress indicates that clearly some dwarven blood runs through his veins. Perhaps he is of both dwarven and elvish ancestry, which would certainly be rather ironic, seeing as each race has a distinct dislike for the other.

  
He allows himself a moment to appreciate the dwarf's physical attributes; sky-colored eyes and flowing dark hair streaked with silver, a strong, dare he say classically heroic nose. He notices that the dwarf had been staring back at him for several seconds now and he tries with little success to suppress an instinctual smile that forms on his face. He watches a certain curiosity grace the dwarf's features.

  
A barmaid draws the dwarf's attention away as he orders a meal, his manners polite, even a little charming, but clearly reserved. It certainly would be a shame if someone were to join him during his meal, keep him company, and prevent his pursuers from doing what they may.

  
Both ruffians rise to their feet carefully and in suspicious unison. If ever there were a sign to act, this would be it. As he wanders over to the dwarf's table, he knocks into one of the ruffians, swiping whatever clattered from their sleeve, expression apologetic and gentle to the ruffian's antagonizing and disgruntled one. He apologizes in the ruffian's native language, using a spell to translate his words into the far eastern dialect of Westron that this one seems to have grown up using, placating the ruffian almost instantly with the familiarity, letting him by without a scratch and simultaneously halting the unsavory characters' plot just long enough to slip into the seat across from the dwarf and strike up a conversation.

  
"If any evening it were to rain, it would likely be this one, don't you think, friend?" He asks the dwarf with a toothy grin, calling over a barmaid to order the same meal as the dwarf.

  
"I suppose so?" The dwarf's reply is not as gruff as it is confused. "Who may you be?"

  
"I am just glad to have caught up to you when I did." He smiles again, watching out of the corner of his eye as one of the ruffians checks his sleeve and finds its contents distinctly missing, then looks to the other ruffian, "There's rumor of unsavory folk wishing you harm in these parts." At this statement, the two ruffians take their leave of the inn. He sighs in relief. The dwarf watches them leave with impartial eyes and returns his attention to the figure before him.

  
"I'm not sure I follow." The dwarf says, now more confused than before. It is evident that he did not have the slightest clue that there were bounty hunters on his trail.

  
"The two men that just left. They had been following you." He clarifies, relaxing more into the rickety wooden chair beneath him and drawing his pipe from the inner pockets of his coat. The dwarf waits for him to continue with a surprised expression. "I am not quite sure for how long before I noticed, and you'll have to forgive me for following them following you. Looking back, it is a rather strange thing to have done." He packs the pipe with herbs and summons a small flame to light it, taking some time to nurse the contents of the bowl into creating more smoke.

  
"Strange is not the term I would have used." the dwarf muses, taking a bite of the meal the barmaid had brought them just moments before.

  
"The two men following you meant you harm. I had the feeling of as much before, out in the street when I saw them trailing after you, but stealing this," He reveals the small blade he had swiped from one of the ruffians, pointing to its blade. "A poisoned knife. See, the hole at the tip of the blade is to release some form of poison into the stab wound." He sniffs the blade gingerly before coughing and using his other nose to wave away the last of the scent, holding the knife a little farther away from him, "Basilisk venom, if I'm not mistaken. The poison is stored in the hilt and this gem you see is where you press to release it." He points the blade downward, over his pint of ale, and presses the red crystal in the knife's hilt, a thin stream of liquid pouring into his drink. He offers the blade to the dwarf, who takes it from him with calloused hands and looks it over with a knowledgeable craftsman’s eye.

  
"It is fortunate that you were present, then." the dwarf says, gratitude plentiful in his smoky voice, his attention returning to the figure before him, "How can I repay you for your kindness?"

  
"Think nothing of it." he laughs, waving away the dwarf's incredulous expression, "I know quite well how it is to be hunted and if I see another in a similar situation, I try to help how I can." The surprise on the dwarf's face is awfully endearing. "Perhaps learning this Master Dwarf's name would be payment enough?" The dwarf chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief, most likely at his conversational partner's unabashed boldness.

  
"I am too old for you, Master Traveler.” The dwarf replies in a humored tone.

  
"Well, I certainly am flattered that you think so." he laughs again, flashing pearly fangs in the rather dim candlelight, "But I have seen my fair share of years and am in no way as young as I may seem."

  
"Is that so?" The dwarf suddenly gives him an almost shy but roguish grin that draws a matching expression from him as if from instinct.

  
"I might dare say that it is." he replies, taking a draught of smoke and watches with an amused expression as the dwarf packs his own pipe and lights it from the candle melted to the table. The silence that hangs between them is expectant and a touch tense, but not in a malicious or even slightly negative way as the dwarf takes one, two nursing drags of his pipe before it starts smoking properly and he sighs, evidently content.

  
"Thorin Oakenshield." he says with a conceding smile, examining the figure before him once more, eyes noting every detail about him.

  
"It has been a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Thorin Oakenshield, and, I hope, if you are willing, it will be a greater one to become more familiar with each other." The dwarf almost spits out his drink, face turning a bright shade of red, and he belts out a raucous laugh. He grins cheekily at the dwarf who, after laughing once more, shakes his head in disbelief with a charming smile.

  
"You certainly are forward." the dwarf remarks, the two of them ignoring the stares of startled or disgruntled patrons around them. "Now, it's only fair that I have your name as well."

  
"Of course, where are my manners." he teases, earning a laugh from the dwarf, "Arinvar Duskwalker, at your service."

  
"We'll see about that." It is Arinvar's turn to flush, though his much fainter in the candlelight, barking out two bolts of laughter, before taking a long, intentional draught of smoke and blowing it out in the form of an elaborate sailing vessel right into Thorin's face, washing him with a calming, sweet, herbal smoke. "What was that?"

  
"Red raspberry leaf and a touch of blue hasuna." He takes a steady breath from his pipe.

  
"Hasuna?" Thorin questions, visibly confused.

  
"I think that translates roughly to lotus. It's certainly uncommon in these parts, so your confusion is understandable." Thorin nods, puffing rings at the person seated on the other side of the table, the faintly blue, smooth-scented smoke. "Nicotiana, is it?" The dwarf nods once in assent, "Figured you were the type."

  
"Oh? And what would that type be?" One of the dwarf's surprisingly fine eyebrows twitches upward.

  
"Surely you must know what I mean." Arinvar grins, "Polite but a touch standoffish, rugged but well acquainted with the comforts of a warm hearth, typically devilishly handsome," He winks cheekily, blowing another puff of herbal smoke into the air around them, "Lucky me, I suppose." The dwarf chuckles, a pleasant sound like a rather far-off rumble of thunder.

  
"Were we in the house of my forefathers', I am certain the guards would have carried you out of the city by now." It is Arinvar's turn to raise an eyebrow, curiosity evident in every detail of his face.

  
"Could I ask what city that may be?" He rests his pipe down on the table for a moment to tear apart the hunk of bread on his plate into smaller pieces. The playful banter of their conversation reaches a moment of respite as the dwarf's expression sobers.

  
"It was known as Erebor in decades past." Thorin says, a faint note of forlorn nostalgia in his voice, "Perhaps it is unknown to you. There is little talk of it, now."

  
"Was that not the city within the Lonely Mountain?" Arinvar asks, quite surprised, "It has certainly been a long while since I last heard that name."

  
"You know of it?" Thorin slams a hand against the table with unsurprising strength, evidently shocked by this new turn of events.

  
"Know of it? I've been." Arinvar takes a bite of bread methodically, "I was much younger then. Ah, seems like a lifetime ago." The dwarf simply stares back in mute astonishment. Arinvar chuckles, "I take there aren't many alive who are not dwarven themselves and can claim as such?"

  
"It has been many decades since I have encountered someone who is not a dwarf who has even heard of it. " Thorin's smile is contagious, his excitement palatable, "Tell me, Master Duskwalker, when was it that you visited? What business had you there?"

  
"It must have been little more than a century and a half ago now." Arinvar recalls, "And as for my business," He shrugs, "Well, I suppose I did not have one in mind when I entered." He watches the confusion well up on the dwarf's face. "I ended up with two of the best purchases of my life there, so I suppose that was my business in the end." He chuckles, reading the question off the dwarf's lips, "One was a chained case for my arcane focus-" He shows a silver chain hanging around his neck that was hidden under the collar of his jerkin, opening the silver case at his neck to reveal a rough chunk of bright blue stone that seems to hold a subtly glowing light at its center, rolling the gem in his hand pensively. "It has never broken, and the rings are thick enough that I could have them engraved with runes to silence them." He grins as he shakes the chain and no noise comes from it.

  
"Certainly impressive," Thorin confirms, "And the second?" Arinvar laughs at the question, waving the chunk of colorful rock, its faint light trailing behind it with a soft, ethereal glow.

  
"Ah, well, you'll have to become better acquainted with me for the answer, Master Oakenshield." He watches the dwarf irk an eyebrow, then very slowly take a bite of his meal. What could he be thinking? There is little other than metallurgy products that he could have purchased at a dwarven city. The only reason he had phrased his statement in that way was to pique the dwarf's interest and, while it worked, it might have worked too well, and he could have referenced something that he wasn't aware of.

  
"Is that so?” He asks in that smoky voice, a sly smile pulling at his lips.

  
“It may be.” In a smooth movement, Arinvar dips the stone into his stein of ale, its glow waxing faintly in the low candlelight. He murmurs a spell under his breath, then wipes the stone on his jacket, placing it away with care in the case around his neck. The dwarf gives him a bemused expression that quickly turns to alarm as he brings the stein to his lips and takes a sip.

  
“Are you mad?!” Thorin cries, moving to knock the mug from his grasp, but Arinvar leans back, well out of the dwarf’s reach, smiling wolfishly and takes another sip, clearly unbothered by the dwarf’s worry. “Do you wish for a painful death?”

  
“At ease, Master Oakenshield.” His voice is silk as he returns the stein to the table, “There is no cause for alarm. I assure you that the drink is clean.” He smiles again as he watches the concern on the dwarf’s face begin to subside.

  
“You are a witch, then?” He asks unsteadily but seems more curious than afraid. Arinvar laughs, something melodic and rough hinted in his voice for but a moment before it passes, “Surely, if what you say is true, some form of magic must be at work.”

  
“Not a witch, my dear Master Dwarf,” Arinvar’s eyes gleam with a strange, nigh-concealed light, “My forefathers were wizards. Though their powers are mere traces in my blood now, it is still enough for a handful of spells.”

  
“I was not aware of the difference.” The dwarf seems more surprised at the differentiation than his ability to do such magic.

  
“Between a witch and a wizard?” Arinvar’s brows peak gently, “Why, there’s a great deal of difference. A wizard’s power is innate, composed of the very energy that gives them life—their vitae. They use this power through their focus—” Here he pauses to remove the stone at his neck again, holding it out with conviction, “—and this is mine—in order to perform spells with a determined outcome. Witches on the other hand,” his expression sours and he clutches the glowing stone in a displeased fist, “Are a nasty lot, use their vitae in crude, base manners for nothing more than the accumulation of what they wish and at the ill of others.” He returns the stone to its case in one steady, methodical movement, surely an action performed countless times.

  
“I take it you do not think very kindly of witches?”

  
“I… cannot say that I do.” A frostbitten spite crystalizes in his voice, “There are not many in this world that I can say with certainty that I hate, but witches are most definitely one of them.” He shakes his head, taking a thoughtful draught of smoke from his smoldering pipe, and exhales deeply, “Let us not speak of such weighty things, Master Dwarf. You must be travel weary. I hope not to burden you with these grave topics.”

  
“You are kind to think so, Master Duskwalker.” An obliging smile finds its way onto the dwarf’s features.

  
In that moment, as if on some divine cue, the telltale patters of rain fall as if curtain over the inn and further off into the town around them.

  
“Ah, what cheery atmosphere.” Arinvar comments drily. He garners a laugh from the dwarf who drinks steadily from his stein before returning it the table with a comfortable thunk.

  
“A worthy reason to stay warm inside.” He replies with another charming smile. Arinvar hums a soft assent as the dwarf attempts with moderate success to soothe his blatantly irritated mood. Both he and Thorin are aware of the nerve struck at the mention of witches and he understands that the dwarf is attempting to make amends for his error, even if it was a minor one.

  
“You make an excellent point.” He agrees, his pleasant attitude from before returning, slowly but surely. “This weather is for reading by the fire late into the night, sharing good food and conversation with close friends and family, and nothing else, or, well,” He pauses, a sly grin spreading across his fine features, “Perhaps one thing more.”

  
“Perhaps, indeed.” The dwarf chuckles, conceding. It seems they both understand the situation well and the sound of the raindrops outside convince them all the more of it.  
They finish their meals with little rush and plenty of amicable conversation. In this time, Arinvar notices more and more about the dwarf; his manner of accentuating his words with his hands, the ruddiness of his cheeks as he makes more colorful jokes, his regal but kind nature, the way he speaks much more casually and comfortably, as if they had known each other for decades. A thought occurs to him.

  
“Do you have quarters for the night?” He asks, waving over a barmaid who takes their plates.

  
“Not yet.” The dwarf replies, surprised by the question.

  
“Then there’s no need to ask for one.” Arinvar grins cheekily, “The owner of this inn is a friend of mine. I wager I can get us a room for a lower price.” He looks expectantly at the dwarf.

  
“I don’t see why not.” This earns him a bright smile from the wizard.

  
“I’ll be right back.” He says and gets up languidly, walking to the counter where the innkeeper chats idly with some patrons. Upon seeing him, the innkeeper’ demeanor warms faintly, greeting him both loudly and in a rather friendly manner. The conversation is short, but successful as Arinvar returns to their table flipping a key in his hand. “Here we are. The last room to the left.” Thorin dips his head once approvingly.

  
They watch as the barmaid returns, asking if they want anything else. Neither of them wish for anything more, so she waits expectantly for their individual payments. As is somewhat expected, the dwarf insists on paying for both of their meals, which Arinvar allows, albeit reluctantly. “Shall we head up?”

  
“I dare say we shall.” He replies with another cheeky grin and they gather their belongings, then make the trek to their room. Arinvar shuts the door behinds them, muttering a silencing spell over the room as they enter so faintly that he is sure the dwarf could not possibly have heard it.


	2. Parting Ways

Arinvar awakens to an empty spot in the blankets beside him. Half-sitting up, he looks around the unlit room to see the dwarf he was looking for struggling to put on pants much too long to be his own. He must not have been able to see that well. A shame he seems to be in a hurry, really. His company and warmth were much appreciated, especially in these colder months.

“Leaving so soon?” He asks and the dwarf freezes in place. “The sun has yet to rise. If you have difficulty differentiating my trousers from yours in this dark, perhaps it would be best if you were to rest a while longer.” He beckons the dwarf with a wave of his hand, the candle on the nightstand lighting in tandem, “Come back to bed. It’ll certainly be much warmer than the wind outside.”

As if on cue, the shutters rattle against the window and the dwarf huffs, evidently embarrassed, and shuffles back over to the bed, sitting gingerly on its edge before settling to sleep, unwavering gaze trained on the boards of the ceiling to the last moment before his eyes shut. It is all rather endearing. Before Arinvar realizes, though, he has dropped into a comfortable slumber.

The second time he awakens, he finds the dwarf sleeping soundly, arms wrapped firmly around his waist. Sunrise gently crests the horizon and filters through the shutters, streaking the room in soft light. He savors the moment, engraving it into his memory as if etched into copper. He wishes he could find a way to at the very least keep in contact with him, send a letter or two occasionally. If he is being honest, he might miss this dwarf for some time before he moves on again.

He gets up, slipping effortlessly from Thorin’s grasp, finding his clothes easily and putting them on, not wishing for the lingering cold to bite longer than it must. He is in no hurry but cannot say the same for the dwarf that snores quietly. Then again, it was rather easy to convince him to rest for some hours more. And he had never mentioned where he was off to, or what his business was, or what his trade was, for that matter. The more Arinvar thinks about it, the more he realizes that he knows next to nothing about this dwarf save his name and that he hails from a long-forgotten city. It is all rather strange, if he is honest, but that just adds to the intrigue, if anything.

Even though it is still rather early, there seems to be the beginning signs of life outside in the streets. There’s the clatter of a cart being pulled, the first few whiffs of the day’s bread baking, and a pair of lively voices conversing as they walk down the street, exchanging amicably their experiences with the guard the previous night. Arinvar chuckles quietly to himself, settling into the rickety chair by the window and flipping through the pages of his journal, now a weighty tome with all its paper and binding and ink. Upon locating a blank page, he sets a pen to dance across it in an account of the last few days. Time like this to simply sit alone and write is much rarer now than it used to be.

He’s only brought from his writings by the sound of a particularly disgruntled dwarf sitting up and squinting at the rest of the contents of the room after patting the surrounding bed in what he can only assume is a search for his presence there. He stifles a laugh before letting his pen rest a moment.

“Good morning,” he says and is met with a grunt, “I hope you have rested well?” The dwarf huffs in reply before getting out of bed and getting dressed rather grumpily. Perhaps he is annoyed at the hour of his waking, but he seems freshened by the extra sleep. That is always a good sign, at the very least. Thorin wanders over to where he has taken up writing again and examines the contents of the page after surveying the sheer size of the tome in Arinvar’s hands. Upon noticing the illustrations that litter the pages, he clears his throat.

“Are you an artist by trade?” The dwarf asks, the words coming through somewhat awkwardly, such a change from their conversations the night before.

“I sell what I can.” He replies, “I think myself a man of many trades.” He smiles to the dwarf, whose only response is to nod slowly, as if asking him to continue, “I make what I can, offer my services where I can, and wander. It may not be much, but it is honest and fair. I could ask for nothing more.”

“No home of your own then?” Thorin murmurs, the realization of having spoken his words aloud slowly dawning on his face. Arinvar leans back in the chair, hoping his wistfulness does not show on his features.

“The world is my home, Master Oakenshield.” He says, trying his best to smile, but it seems to have come across as a touch melancholic and tired as he turns the page in his journal methodically before closing it gently and stowing it away in his bag. “I’m sure you’d like a bite to eat before you continue on your journey.” Arinvar continues to gather his things, appreciating the familiar weight of his jacket on his shoulders, his sword at his hip, and his pack on his shoulders. “I heard rumor they were serving sausages and eggs for breakfast this morning.” He looks over, surprised by the quiet chortle that Thorin released but refrains from commenting on it.

“We’d better not miss it, then.” The dwarf replies and, upon gathering his own things, which are altogether not many, they head back to the taproom of the inn where they order breakfast. Their conversation is somewhat awkward on the dwarf’s end, as if he does not know how to refer to or treat the wizard. It would be endearing if he were not quite so stoic about it.

“So where are you off to now, Master Oakenshield?” Arinvar asks, knowing his curiosity might get the better of him if he pries too much.

“The Blue Mountains.” Thorin replies, maybe a touch gruffly.

“Business?” He watches as the dwarf grunts affirmatively and shoves half a sausage in his mouth, waiting patiently for a proper reply as he chews and swallows his food.

“I doubt the success of the venture.” The dwarf huffs rather dramatically, “My cousins are known to be cautious and stubborn.”

“Oh, are they?” Arinvar’s cheeky grin causes the dwarf’s face to flush bright enough to rival the tomatoes on his plate, “Perhaps it runs in the family?” Thorin huffs again and says nothing, polishing off the rest of his breakfast with unsurprising speed. “I wonder with all this secretive talk, Master Oakenshield.” The wizard hesitates for a moment, not quite sure what stays his voice, “Have you plans to return to Erebor?”

“No.” The retort is swift as a falling blade, severing the topic from their conversation with an iciness that Arinvar had not expected. If it was not obvious from their previous talk, it is abundantly clear now that the subject of his homeland is a touchy one at best. Perhaps he should not have asked in the first place. “That is naught but folly to mention.”

“Come now, my friend, no ill-intent was meant by the question. It was an honest inquiry, that is all.” He smiles, attempting words of reconciliation that work with varying degrees of success. At first the dwarf eyes him with a vague distrust, but soon that same distrust turns to disgruntled agreement.

“Do not think your honeyed words will regain your favor with me after such a foolish question.” Thorin attempts a scowl, but it falls flat. He seems to instead be stifling a grin.

“And yet you seem to be smiling again, Master Dwarf.” Arinvar smiles himself, “Tell me, do you wish for a travelling companion? Surely those assassins will return and, though I have no doubt you can protect yourself, it may be easier and by far safer to travel with a companion, especially one of my skill.”

“This is something I must do alone.” The dwarf states bluntly, leaning back in his chair. He certainly is prideful, there is little doubt of that, “And my cousins will likely not trust an outsider with nothing evident to offer them.”

“In that case,” Arinvar fishes in his pack for a moment, “Take this with you.” In his outstretched hand rests an amulet on a leather cord, a simple rune carved into its face. “It is a protection charm and should keep you safe in my stead.” He smiles kindly as the dwarf takes it from his hand gingerly, rough fingertips brushing the smooth skin of his palm.

“Will you not have need of this?” He asks, not even attempting to hide the worry in his voice. Nonetheless, he flushes as he hears the tone of the words leaving his lips.

“I can always make another.” Arinvar assures, waving down a barmaid and paying for their meals and stay in one fell swoop. Before the dwarf can protest, he waves a hand to quiet him. “You still have quite a journey to the Blue Mountains, do you not? I can only imagine that it may help to conserve resources where you can.”

“For what have I earned this kindness?” The dwarf asks, thoroughly confused, a crease etching between his fine brows.

“Well, nothing.” The wizard is surprised he asked. “You don’t earn kindness. I am giving it freely and do not expect anything in return.” He grins. “And besides, I quite like your company.” He stands, stretches easily, and pulls on his pack, “Shall I see you out of the town? The unsavory folk from last night may still be prowling and we wouldn’t want an altercation, much less within the walls of this place.” The dwarf seems only more confused now.

“And why would that be?” he asks as he gathers his things and follows the wizard to the door. Arinvar waves amicably to the innkeeper before holding the door for the dwarf with a smooth, almost feline agility.

“There is a penalty for any fighting, I’m afraid.” He replies with a fond smile, “Last I heard of it, the price for both ends of the disagreement is twelve gold pieces and a good day in a cell each. They are exceptionally clean, so it goes, but terribly boring. You would likely find it rather disagreeable to become acquainted with one.”

“I am sure.” The dwarf chuckles, evidently put in a better mood, “How did you come by this knowledge?”

“Ah, well, it has certainly been many years now, but I had a… rather lively disagreement with several, ah, persons who had taken to insulting my lifestyle.”

“A mistake, to be sure.” The dwarf offers.

“To be quite sure.” Arinvar laughs, “But the four of us ended up in prison cells all the same.

“I have never heard of such a system before. I take there were quite a few of these disagreements, then?”

“Of course, many years ago when it was still a logging settlement.” The wizard shrugs languidly, “All sorts of uncouth folk around when decent money was to be made, but since the current line of leadership took shape here, there’s hardly been any fighting—in fact, there has hardly been any _crime_ since.” He waves to townsfolk here and there that he had come to know from the previous times he has passed through, “It has really shaped up since its inception, I will tell you that.” He pauses, “Which is why the two unsavory sorts from last night were such a rather unpleasant surprise.”

“I’m sure.” They reach the gates unscathed, leaving the town behind them. As they pass, the guards seem less tense as they were the previous night when he had entered. They greet Arinvar by name and wave the unlikely pair through with friendly smiles. It is quite nice if he is honest with such thoughts. This would be a nice place to settle should he ever take to the thought.

A conniving sliver of worry crawls through his mind for a moment. Will this Thorin character beside him be safe on his travels? Indeed, he does have the protective charm that Arinvar had given him, and yet he cannot help but wonder if that would be enough. Should he have cast a warding spell before they set off? Well, it certainly is far too late for that now. He must simply hope for the best.

“You will be careful from now on, will you not?” The dwarf’s features twist into an inquisitive expression at the wizard’s words. “Evidently, there is somebody after you, for a reason that I do not need—nor wish—to know. That is your business, clearly, and not something I will ask for.” Arinvar clears his throat, “So it would be best to be wary of anybody suspicious from now on, you understand? It would be a terrible loss to this world were you to leave it, Master Oakenshield. You’re a good sort.” The dwarf before him flushes a furious saccharine shade before turning away with a huff. He does not turn fast enough, however, as Arinvar spots the fond smile on his lips and the genuine gratitude in his eyes. The wizard’s face melts into a grin at the sight.

“Until we next meet, Master Duskwalker.” The dwarf says before setting off along the road. “May it be under more fortuitous circumstances.”

“Until then!” Arinvar replies, that smile, unlike the volume of his voice, refusing to wane, “May we meet again at all.” A gust of nostalgia brushes past him and for a moment he considers chasing after the dwarf to accompany him to the Blue Mountains. It has been quite a long time since he has been, and it must be rather nice this time of year. The wizard shakes his head and turns away, returning some ways down the path to a crossroad where he takes the path most overgrown and unkept.


End file.
